


One Year and Sixty Eight Days

by Jarakrisafis



Series: Dominion [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year and sixty eight days in Ratchet's life, when all has gone to the Pit and the only things he has left are dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 8 Days After

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Long Hard Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/289159) by [darthneko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthneko/pseuds/darthneko). 



> A short time ago in a galaxy that might just be this one, Darthneko started to write an absolutely brilliant sequel to one of my fics. I got inspired to write more in this verse. Many thanks to 'Neko for such an awesome sequel and for kickstarting me into writing more in this verse.
> 
> These are out-takes of Ratchet's new life with Mirage, set after Dominion and before Chapter 1 of Long Hard Road

::Change of plans Ratch. Head back to your quarters instead of mine after your shift and wait for me there.:: Ratchet stills as the cultured voice echoes around his helm, completely bypassing his firewalls and comm. blocks. Firewalls he had put up to stop _Him_ from getting in contact. It was bad enough that he had to return to Mirage’s quarters every night, whether he wishes to or not. And he should know, he’s tried to escape that order enough in the past week, but he always ends up there to escape the pain that rips around his chassis, punishing him for his resistance and disobedience.

::Fine.:: He growled. If Mirage wanted him to sound happy about his new plan he’d have to make it into an order.

::What was that?:: The question was deceptively calm, only the accompanying warning glyphs letting Ratchet know that his attitude was not appreciated.

::Fine, _Master_.::

::Better. See you after your shift.::

“Boss?” The medic starts at the light touch on his arm, First Aid’s concerned voice finally penetrating his anger as the Protectobot withdraws the hand that he had stretched across the desk with a worried frown. “You ok?”

No. Ratchet wants to say, I’m anything but ok. I still have some damaged cabling in my hips from... from that first night, from what _he_ wanted, and I didn’t want. I didn’t. Not like _He_ cares about details like that though. I’m just a toy, a pet. And oh Primus I don’t want this shift to end. Don’t want to go back to my quarters tonight. I’ll have to let him in. If I don’t...

“I’m fine. Aid” His vocaliser refuses to cooperate with his processor, refuses to say what he truly wants it to. His anger and shame and fury remaining contained, unnoticed.

“Perhaps you should take some time off. I know you have leave time stacking up.” And spend even more time in his own personal hell? Ratchet barely suppresses the urge to lash out at his apprentice. But it isn’t his fault. He doesn’t even know.

“No, no. I’m good.” It is all Ratchet can do to not wince as the coding kicks in at his refusal to spend more time with Mirage. “I need to be doing my job.” He focuses all his processing power onto the memory of Mirage’s order: ‘Go about your duties as normal’. Ratchet taking time off is _not_ normal. He barely contains the relieved whine as the coding subsides, acknowledging that he is behaving himself.

“Sure thing boss.” He smiles back at First Aid before the Protectobot bustles off, leaving Ratchet to stare at his monitor screen, the injury report from the last battle still untouched as he contemplates what just happened.

He is still thinking as it approaches the end of his shift. He should be heading back to his quarters, as Mirage ordered. But the reports aren’t finished, and it is expected, is _normal_ , that Ratchet will stay longer to get them finished. He leans into the coding, barely suppressing his joy as it once again accepts his thought process. As long as he’s following at least one order it won’t punish him. That's... good to know.

“I do believe your shift finished several breems ago.” The voice is a whisper, its owner unseen as a hand gently traces up Ratchet’s backstrut, tightening around his neck. “Do you enjoy pain Ratchet? I think you should log off and return to your quarters.” The hand is abruptly gone, leaving Ratchet to wonder if Mirage is still around. Still watching. Better not to find out. He logs off, waving to Aid and Hoist as he departs, the short walk back to his quarters taking much longer than normal, yet is far too short.

Reaching out to punch in his code he is stilled again. “Slowly, pet, slowly. And I would appreciate it if you don’t change the codes on me.” Ratchet can feel Mirage’s energy field brush past his own as the door cycles open. His quarters have never been so uninviting.

Locking the door he turns round to find that Mirage has become visible again, his hands wandering over the keepsakes on his desk, examining his belongings with a casual indifference. “Mirage, don’t.”

“Don’t move.” Ratchet freezes; his attention on the black hands casually tossing the crystal he is holding from palm to palm. “I do hope I don’t have to tell you how to address me many more times.” The warning in his voice is clear as he examines the chunk of crystal, a rough hewn cyberwolf on a leash. Wheeljack carved it back while the war was only just starting after Ratchet threatened to collar him if he got himself into any more trouble of the explosive kind.

He grits his dente, “ _Master,_ please, put it down.”

Mirage’s optics brighten with a quick flash of anger. “You do _not_ give orders to me.” The sound of breaking crystal is loud in the room, like the shattering of Ratchet’s hopes and dreams, the future breaking into a myriad of pieces, out of his control. _Why?_ Is it not enough that Mirage has control of his frame and processor, must he take everything else as well? Ratchet doesn’t even manage to strike him as he throws himself at the Noble, his anger finally reaching a melting point, but the attack falters when pain races over his chassis, his sensors alight with flames as he crashes to the floor.

The weight across his back is soothing as his systems reset, warm hands rubbing across his plating, easing away the remnants of pain that are still flashing across his sensor net. He can almost imagine that he’s with another mech, at another time, in another place. “You are mine pet, what’s yours is mine, and I can do _whatever I want_ with my possessions.” Or he could, until that cold, cultured tone broke apart his little make believe world. That voice is his world now. Ratchet doesn’t think he’s ever hated any mech as much as he hates his _Master._ Not even Megatron.


	2. 22 Days after

Ratchet stills as he enters his quarters, carefully damping down his systems until he appears outwardly calm. This used to be a haven, a respite from the spilt energon and fear and pain in the medbay, somewhere to escape the inevitable aftermath of war, to wash off the stink and grime of battle and relax. Now? Now it’s a prison. He can enter whenever he wants, take whatever he wants, do whatever he wants. And there’s not a slagging thing Ratchet can do to stop him.

His hand is shaking as he sets the temperature on his washrack; Mirage doesn’t like it when he’s dirty. It’s the first thing Ratchet does now, even when he’s spent all day at his desk. Scrub his armour down till the days dust and dirt is gone and polish it till it shines so that there is nothing that the noble can find fault with. Not the relaxing wash that he used to have; just letting the solvent stream through his systems, clearing out the grime as his cabling relaxes after another gruelling day putting his friends back together. No, now it is a meticulous cleansing, all quick efficiency.

He needs to be done before Mirage gets back.

Ducking out of the washrack he moves into the berthroom, sinking to his knees. He would have been at the front door, but then he could have been seen by accident when it opens and the last thing Mirage wants is to lose his new toy. So he waits by the berth. As he has for the last couple of weeks since Mirage decided that he preferred Ratchet’s quarters, preferred the novelty of having two rooms and a personal washrack instead of one room and using the communal racks. Hands that have curled into fists are straightened to rest on his legs, frame straight, helm up. A perfect little pet. It doesn’t matter that he appears to be alone.

Because Mirage can become invisible.

And today might be the day that he got off shift early, today might be the day that he’s already here, watching to see if his pet is following orders.

Ratchet doesn’t so much as blink as the sound of the outer door opening echoes through his quarters. He doesn’t twitch, doesn’t move. Nothing less than perfection will be tolerated. A black hand traces around his chevron as Mirage comes to stand behind him, vents gusting across the medics helm. “Good evening pet.”

Ratchets optics shutter for a fraction of a second as he reigns in his processor, stopping it from sending out signals to shake Mirage off and scramble away, far away. After all, there’s nowhere he can go that would be far enough. “Good evening Master.”

The Noble hums slightly as he pulls away, heading for the washracks, “Come pet.” Ratchet is silent as he rises to his feet, grabbing Mirage’s washing supplies as he follows; beyond the expected greeting he hasn’t been given permission to speak yet this evening. Mirage purrs as he relaxes against one wall, letting the clever fingers untangle cabling where he can’t easily reach. A good sign, Ratchet knows, a happy, relaxed Mirage is less likely to be violent, more likely to just want a good wax and possibly a slow, gentle frag. That he can manage, especially if the Noble is in a good enough mood to only want his chassis; if he is allowed to offline his optics and let himself drift he can sometimes imagine that he’s with another mech.

Mirage doesn’t speak as he splays out on the berth, freshly washed plating gleaming as Ratchet fetches the tin of wax, its rich scent invading his rooms, a reminder of his position even when Mirage is not around. He buffs the fine silver and blue plating with a touch that is rapidly becoming well practised, the noble mech relaxing even further under his ministrations.

Regarding his own chassis with a critical optic Mirage’s nod of acceptance leaves Ratchet barely suppressing his joy. His Master is rarely satisfied with his work, and it is not often that he seems so pleased. Ratchet tilts his helm as Mirage removes a bookfile from his subspace and settles into one of the chairs to read. Now what is he meant to do? Another test? “Go grab the cube of energon.” Not a test then. He doesn’t glance at the cube before he hands it over, hovering beside the chair for lack of anything else to do. He collected it this morning, as he always does, bringing it back and leaving it on the table for Mirage to notice - and for him to see all day, a tantalising reminder that he can look but not touch without his master’s consent.

The cube is placed on the floor, a slender black hand waving negligently towards it. “Go ahead Ratchet.” Mirage speaks up before he can ask if he is allowed to drink, or whether this is yet another test. It is as much permission as he needs. He missed his afternoon cube after one of the long range patrols came in battered and dented, and his processor has been flashing him low energy readings for a while. Sinking to his knees to collect the cube he is stopped by Mirage’s voice, amusement clear in his tone, leaving Ratchet snarling internally as he fights down his humiliation. “No hands Ratchet.”


	3. 29 Days After

He’s come to a conclusion. That when it is necessary, emotional subroutines are much easier to dampen for periods of time than it would at first appear. Oh he knew that as a medic, it’s just a case of tweaking a few subroutines. It’s the actual process, when the emotional centre is turned back on and the previous memories are processed that is meant to be the hard part. It isn’t that bad, not when the only emotions are shame and humiliation all overshadowed by a raging hatred.

But the ability to turn them off means that for now he can function without feeling. It makes it all so much easier. Stops him from hesitating, stops him from refusing. Mirage doesn’t like it when he refuses to do things. A pet, he says, should obey their Master, without thought and without question.

Ratchet is glad that he is a medic, he has been able to start reordering his processor, autonomous reactions set to his Master’s commands. If he doesn’t have to think about what he is doing he runs less risk of spending too much time debating. Instantaneous compliance means less pain.

Ratchet doesn’t even blink as Mirage clicks, a short staccato burst as he curls the fingers of the hand that is draped over the edge of the chair. The medic is already crawling over to the Noble to put his helm under the hand, the soft petting assuring him that Mirage is pleased with his progress. He touches his helm to the floor as the hand flattens, motioning him down before the noble gets to his feet. He can see nothing more than a silvery white foot, but he knows better than to raise his head.

Moving across the room he clicks again, Ratchet following obediently, careful not to look too intently at the energon cube that Mirage is holding. Even without the coding he might have dropped to his knees and crawled if it meant being able to fuel. He’s not been at such a low level since they were back on Cybertron and the ‘Cons had them holed up in a small outpost. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

He takes the cube when it is offered, holding it carefully since he doesn’t know when he might be allowed to fuel next. He holds himself steady, newly written coding overwriting his processors requests to flee as a slender finger is suddenly under his chin, tilting his helm upwards. He focuses his vision over Mirage’s shoulder; his Master doesn’t like being looked in the optics, as if they are equals. “Well?”

The mocking smile on the aristocrat’s faceplates makes him want to remove it, makes him want to feel the delicate plating give beneath his fist, but that’s a fantasy that he will never get to fulfil. “Permission to refuel Master?” The words come to him easily, slipping from his vocaliser. Practise makes perfect, or so the saying goes.

All yours pet.” The Noble says as he draws his hand up one cheek, curling over his chevron before he pads back to his chair, pausing, waiting before he returns to his bookfile.

Even with his emotional subroutines blocked Ratchet still finds it hard to say what he must. “Thank you Master.”


	4. 2 Months, 6 Days After

You never realise what you have till it’s gone. That's one truth that Ratchet can't forget as he curls up into a smaller ball of metal, plating clamping tight to his frame, depression hovering around him like a palpable aura. Life, he once told a couple of young gladiators when the Autobots rescued them from the Kaon death matches, is not fair. That saying has never seemed more appropriate, but the knowledge that his own life, such as it is, is no longer his, makes it appear to be even worse. Fair does not even begin to cover how he feels.

He shifts, the rattle of a chain just another reminder of his life, as he turns over. He’s too old to be recharging on the floor instead of a warm berth, his joints and cables protest against the unforgiving surface as the cold seeps into his very spark. A cold that never seems to leave, not since he woke up to stare into golden optics, not since he’s seen past the well-mannered but aloof mask that the Noble wears so well, to the cruel aristocrat that he hides.

The days pass without notice; mornings spent watching his very word, every movement, playing a starring role in a performance he wants no part of. His shifts in medbay are a relief, the calm in amongst the bustle and work the only time that he can truly call his own. Then evenings spent however Mirage wants to spend them, a blur of pain and hate and humiliation.

Everything is about control. Even when _He_ isn’t around.

The band of metal clasped around his neck isn’t even locked, but it is as unmoveable as one that is welded. The chain is made of fine links, were he to put his weight against them they would snap, but they are not there to hold him. They are there as reminders, to never let him forget that he has no control. Removing them is not an option, defiance brings only pain. So they stay where they are. He stays where he is.

Even when he would rather be elsewhere.

There’s a party in the rec room tonight. Wheeljack asked him to go along, his voice playful as he suggested they ‘make a date of it’. The engineer didn’t understand why he declined, why the medic didn’t even say ‘sorry’, couldn’t say that he wanted to go, couldn’t say anything as the engineer’s helm fins had dulled before he turned away, couldn’t tell him that he wasn’t the only one upset.

There are too many things that he can no longer do with his life, but that doesn’t seem to matter, because he pulled the short straw and life isn’t fair.


	5. 2 Months 16 Days

Ratchet knows better than to scream, even if it does mean offlining his vocaliser for a moment, booting it up with a whine when the worst of the burning agony has passed. He resists the urge to shake himself; he can feel energon dripping between his internal components to pool on the berth, the scent making his tanks heave. Much more of this and he’ll probably lose the fight to not purge his tanks.

Even on the battlefield he has never felt such agony. But then under battle protocols pressure sensors are dulled so that minor damage is not a hindrance, and it isn’t often that he took a big hit. He was on Megatron’s wanted list, and none of his mechs would willingly defy a capture not kill bounty, not when it would be their helm on the deck if they did. Perhaps this is what makes this so much worse. Every sensor is attuned to any difference in its environment. The relay of information going straight to his CPU, not shunted to a holding partition, to be disseminated when the fight is over.

His ventilations seem loud in the silence, barely covering the whimpers that he can’t suppress and the harsh clatter of his armour panels rattling as he shudders.

But pain isn’t the only thing he is feeling as Mirage rocks his hips, pleasure, pain, pleasure rolling over him in a wave. The Tower mechs cruel laughter mocking him as energon stained fingers dig into his chassis, smearing his own fluids across him, painting his frame a glistening pink. “You like this.” The words are quiet, barely heard, but they make him want to scream. Mirage knows that will be seen as an order. But he doesn’t like it. Not one bit. He’s being reprogrammed one step at a time to enjoy the pain, to want it, to need it, to ask for it, to want it badly enough that he’ll beg, pleading words falling from his vocaliser in an incoherent stream.

For his Master to move, to take him, please. Because that’s the only way it will end. But every time his coding accepts that pain is good, he gets one step closer to begging because he wants more, not because he wants it to stop, and every time he can feel another part of his self breaking apart, lost forever on a tide of pain and pleasure.


End file.
